On the Lam
by ScribeOfRED
Summary: Escaping to the desert with Scott sounds like a marvelous plan.


**Artemis requested Scott/Penny and 22 from a prompt list on tumblr. I finally finished it, almost a year late, but just in time for Scott's birthday. Kudos to Raven for the title!**

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Working with International Rescue means birthdays are far too often lost in the mix. The various members of the Tracy family can sometimes be scattered as far as halfway across the solar system, so it's rarer than they'd like that they're able to sit down for a meal, much less do something they're interested in—or spend time with someone special.

Which is why Penelope specifically collaborated with John to ensure Scott has three days off, just for them. Their itinerary she keeps private; Scott only receives a set of coordinates, and his befuddled expression when he steps out of _Tracy Two_ after having landed on a private runway in northeast Egypt makes all the planning (and money spent) worth it.

"This is rather mysterious," he calls as he exits the hanger, eyes bright, although whether he looks delighted because of her or because of the sky-blue hypercar she's leaning against is difficult to know for certain. She estimates it at an even split—she does know exactly what he likes, after all.

"Just for you, darling," she replies, tilting her head so his kiss finds her cheek instead of her lips. He pouts and tries to close in, and even though his full lower lip is terribly tempting, she slips sideways along the car's flank, lifting the key up to him as a consolation prize.

He accepts it and sighs with a despondency that leaves her momentarily second guessing herself. "Why bother summon me here if I can't hold you?"

"Dearest, I think you'll find I never said that." She gives him a coy smile and tightens the silk scarf wrapped over her hair as she circles the low-slung wedge of a car to settle herself in the passenger's seat. "Now be a darling and take us to our destination."

"Yes, ma'am." His voice is lazy but his salute is flawless, and there remains a slight bounce to his step as he takes his place beside her. Good, she hasn't hurt him after all.

The car's roof is down, and the wind is hot and dry as they race through it, so very different from England's cool, damp weather, or the island's steadily humid subtropical climate. Conversation isn't made easy when their initial attempts are flung away into the desert, but that's quite all right—watching Scott behind the wheel is an enjoyable experience in its own right. Even when pushing the car firmly into limit-testing territory, he's attentive while remaining relaxed in a way only the pilot of the fastest in-atmosphere craft can be.

There's a definite temptation to cast weeks of planning aside in favor of pouncing on him now, but she knows the instant gratification will derail her other, long-cultivated plans, so she keeps her hands well to herself as he follows her directions and they plunge deeper into clearly untamed desert. Scrubby trees cling tenaciously to soil that's more sand than dirt and to the rocky slopes of the foothills pressing in on either side of the road, which is beginning to serpentine sharply enough that Scott actually eases back on the accelerator, although this is quite possibly for her benefit and not his. She could chide him for it, she hardly needs _coddling_, but she finds herself distracted by the mountains' variegated appearance, the way they're almost smearing together as the car weaves between them. It's mesmerizing, creamy grays and soft tans blurring into rich terra cottas, a palette of colors only found where the sun can bake them into the rock, so different from the drab late-blooming English spring and the crystalline blue that comes to mind when she thinks of the island. It truly feels like they've finally left the rest of the world behind.

And although she's waiting, watching for something she's already seen many, many photos of, she cannot help the soft note of surprise that leaves her when they round a corner that looks identical to all the others and find themselves descending into a lush valley, filled nearly to bursting with trees and bushes and flowers all gathered around several winding canals. There are even swaths of cropped grass stretching out between the white fencing separating the small grazing herds of horses. Those in the nearest fields lift their heads to watch them, even though Scott has slowed yet again, the engine a throaty purr quiet enough to talk over.

"What's this?" he asks. "A stable?"

"A stud farm," she corrects him, but even before the words have fully left her lips, she realizes her mistake as Scott's eyes gleam with a wicked light.

"A stud farm, huh?"

"Don't."

"Come on, Pen, it's right there. How can I pass it up?"

She knows he's only being cheeky for the reactions it earns him, but she still gives him a stern look. "_Please_ don't."

"Truth is truth." He smirks as he eases the car around the corner that puts them on the long drive leading up to the farm, populated with low buildings, white marble arches gleaming white in the sunshine. "So. Why are we here at this very nice and very innocent stud farm?"

"When was the last time you looked at a calendar, darling?"

For the first time since Scott touched down, he looks less certain of himself. "Uh… probably at some point over the last few days. Why?"

He's most definitely in need of a vacation; his head is probably still full of numbers and statistics and the crowding, pervasive, heavy weight of balancing lives against more lives against impossible situations. "It's your birthday."

"My—" His expression darkens into a proper frown before he lifts his hand from the wheel long enough to glance at the large, glossy face of his watch. "Huh."

When there's no slow grin of realization, no sly comments or relenting of the tension she can see he's still carrying in his shoulders, not even a single protestation of any kind, she reaches out to touch his hovering hand, abruptly fearful somewhere along the way she's made a severe miscalculation. "Scott, darling, what's wrong?"

Perhaps her touch or perhaps her words causes him to start, fingers twitching into a loose fist before he replaces his hand upon the steering wheel. "So, uh. I might have lost Saturday, Monday, and a third of Tuesday."

He says it as a matter of fact, but she's known him long enough to not fall for the deception. He'll shoulder any bit of guilt the world will offer him if given the chance, and she will not have him spend his precious days off moping about things beyond his control. "They went to the best possible cause, darling—you saved how many lives, seventeen?"

"Nineteen," he automatically corrects her intentional mistake, as she knew he would. He sighs, but his shoulders drop a fraction. It's a start. "No casualties."

"There, you see? Nothing was lost in the end after all, and everything was gained." Whether he believes it or not right now matters less than not letting him dwell on it, so she presses on without pause. "And now you have several days all to yourself. Oh, left here."

His gaze finally cuts to her as he follows her directions. "_All_ to myself, huh? I don't know, Pen, sounds kind of lonely..."

She doesn't respond until he's parked the car next to a pretty little guesthouse carved from the same spotless marble as the rest of the farm's buildings. "Well, then, I suppose it's fortuitous I have no engagements booked until early next week."

The way his expression lights up, slowly and then with sudden, blinding delight, makes her realize with intense clarity just how uncertain he actually was about whether or not her presence would remain a permanent fixture. "Really?"

"Really," she says, and then she doesn't get to say anything else because Scott has by some trick managed to scoop her up out of the car and is twirling her around with the biggest, most delighted grin she thinks she's ever seen him wear.

"Best present ever," he declares as he stops spinning, and thank goodness, because she's on the verge of dizziness. Perhaps it's the slight sense of unbalance, or perhaps it's the rush of being held in his arms, his hands firm around her waist and his big blue eyes, brimming with brightness and a deep longing she's sure never actually went away. She isn't quite sure how she gets to kissing him, but she is, and it's glorious, like lightning in her spine, fast and sharp and hot enough nearly to burn, and she can't remember why she didn't let him do this from the very start.

Her toes eventually touch the ground again as they break apart just enough to recover lost breath. His forehead brushes hers, once, twice, testing, and when she doesn't move, he settles, an odd but wonderfully satisfying contentment draping over him, like sunlight spilling across his shoulders.

"Mmm. I stand corrected—_that_ was the best present ever."

A smile curling her lips, she reaches a hand up to rest her palm on his cheek, feeling the slightest scrape of stubble and a softness to his countenance she's sure wasn't there when he landed the jet an hour ago. "Only the very best for you, darling."

There is the promise of trouble in his grin, but she makes no move to deter him this time; ruining an expression that happy would be tantamount to a crime. "I guess that's why you brought me here, huh, on account that I'm the best stud around."

She does sigh this time, a sound replete with fond exasperation. "Must you, Scott?"

"I must." He dots a kiss on the end of her nose. "It's my birthday, after all."

"That it is." And so she gives him another kiss, softer and sweeter, because as long as she's kissing him, he won't be able to make more tasteless comments—although she secretly doesn't mind, since she wouldn't trade him for the world. "Happy birthday, Scott."


End file.
